Waiting in line
by coldcoffeestains
Summary: "She is here - at the back of a bookstore, waiting in line to get the book she cradles between her arms and chest signed by no other than her favourite author." A pre series one shot.


**A/N: **I've got the idea for this story a few days ago before watching 07x06 - I swear but after that episode I had to write it down. I hope that you like it.

* * *

><p><strong>Waiting in line<strong>

* * *

><p>It's stupid – she's being stupid, and pubertal and completely inappropriate. She's a detective – a <em>homicide<em> detective – for god's sake. She has a real job, a real life and she's an adult.

And still she is here – at the back of a book store, waiting in line to get the book she cradles between her arms and chest signed by no other than her favorite author.

The line closed shortly after she entered the store, just two more people behind her, women of course. Blonde, giggling, hopefully already legal women, _girls_. The women, girls, in front of her no other. It's either blonde and perky or big build and frustrated.

And still she is here – spends her lunch break waiting in line after she just drove all through Manhattan instead of getting something to eat.

Stupid, pubertal, inappropriate.

It moves slowly, so incredible slowly. He, _he_, takes his time to actual talk to the people who came here just for him. She can't really see him, too many people in front of her, the crowd to loud to make out any_ actual _words.

She makes out a few, '_What's your name_?' and '_I'm your biggest fan_'s.

His voice is deep and warm she is not one of those girls,_ women_ – shouting out phrases he probably hears hundreds of times a day.

She_ is _being pathetic, though, trying to figure out what to exactly say when she stands in front of him, and suddenly things like 'I'm your biggest fan,' and 'I love your work,' are the only things that come to her mind.

How old is she again?

She pulls _Storm_ tighter into her body, feels the bookcase pressing against the silver band hanging on a chain around her neck.

Right – that's why she's here.

She huffs, one person leaves, a step ahead. Again and again. The minutes tick by and she's already late. She should leave, go back to work, _do_ her job, but instead she fishes for her cellphone with her free hand and types a quick message to one of her fellow Detectives.

_'Sorry, I'll be late. Personal emergency.' _

It's just partially a lie. It's not an emergency but it_ is_ personal. Somehow the ring weights heavier today, pulls her torso slightly forward.

She does this for her – the person who introduced her to the world of crime and mystery and the good people winning. She debated long; to bring one of_ her_ books and she almost packed_ In A Hail Of Bullets _into her bag this morning, but decided against it.

_Because _it is, was, hers – her mothers. Her fingers and eyes moved over the pages on a lazy Sunday, her eyes sparkled when she said the author was still in college and had a huge potential. She was twelve and she still remembers how she rolled her eyes and then her mothers words.

"Believe me, Katie, someday you're gonna love his books. And yes, I said books, Jim," she sideways glanced at her father, amusement written over her face, "because this guy, he's going to be big!"

She almost packed her book, almost. She never opened it, not once, couldn't bring herself to turn the pages with her own fingers, afraid of destroying her mother's last traces. And after all this years, she holds onto her books like a treasure and somehow they are, her fingerprints still linger deep in the pages.

She started to read them, a few months after her death – her _murder_. She wanted to read her copies, she tried to, she pressed the book against her body for a whole night – just like she was holding _Storm_ now – but she couldn't open it. She bought her own copy the next day and then the next and the next until she there was no next anymore and then _Storm_ came out and it was the first her mother never read. Would never be able to read, and it hurt.

The first few days after she bought the book she left it on her nightstand, dead and untouched. She was afraid that it wouldn't bring her the comfort she was so desperately looking for, some kind of closure she's never got. They brought her closer to her mother and now their togetherness, their communality was somehow ripped apart – by the pure fact that she was killed and the world didn't stop. There were still new books to be published, new days to come. Her mother was gone but she was not.

That's why – one night – she grabbed the book and started reading, the familiar feeling of excitement bubbling up inside of her, warmth spreading through her limbs as _someone else_ got closure. She might never get the answers she's looking for but there are still people who can.

That's why she packed this book in the morning, not _hers._ It means future, it means going forward, it means never giving up on finding the answers, it means that even though she was taken from her there are still things to come – things they still have _in common_.

There are still people in front of her, still moving slowly, but she's coming closer to where she wants to be.

Three people to go.

He wears a plaid shirt, it's blue, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She can see his arms moving as he signs, the rest of his body still hidden by the people in front.

She runs a hand through her hair. Maybe she should cut it, short hair seems to be so much easier to handle. She's been thinking about that for a while now. She should just get an appointment – wear it short for a while, it's just hair, it grows back.

Two people to go.

Will teased her this morning as she told him about her plans, asked if he should be worried about her commitment to him.

He never got her love for books – her love for_ his _books.

One person to go.

She gets really nervous now, warmth creeps up her neck, her heart hammers against the book on her chest.

And Richard Castle currently shakes the hand of the person in front of her, thanking her for coming here today.

No one to go.

She stands back, awkwardly looking at him. He looks up from his desks, smiles at her, soft wrinkles form around his blue eyes. He reaches out, motions for her to step forward, take the book from her. She stands still.

"It's your turn," an annoyed voice says behind her, pushes her out of her haze, makes her take the last step.

Unable to say anything she puts the book on the desk, waits for him to open it.

"To whom is this?" he asks.

It takes a second, or maybe two or three for her to respond, "Uhm- Kate? My name's Kate."

"You're not sure?" he asks, a small laugh coming from the back of his throat.

"No, Kate. To Kate," she stutters.

Yes, for a second she thought she might say_ 'To Johanna' – _and wow, she must sound stupid. Since when was she unable to talk, shy even? She doesn't want to know what he thinks about her.

Stupid, pubertal, inappropriate.

"So Kate, how are you today?" he looks at her, only her and for a moment she wonders if he's really interested or if he is just a good actor – maybe both, maybe neither.

She steps from one foot to the other, fingers involuntary grabbing her mother's ring, praying herself to just calm down. It's no big thing.

Except, it really is.

"I'm fine, thank you?" It's not supposed to come out like a question but it does.

A question flashes across his face but then she can see the smile playing around his lips as he puts the pen on the first page, ink coloring the white, words she can't make out, yet.

"Tell me Kate, what do you do? You don't seem like most people who come here," he lowers his a voice a little, closes the book and folds his hand on top of the cover, attention completely on her now.

"Police. Detective- I'm a Detective," she manages to put the words into a whole sentence.

He opens his mouth in excitement and for a moment he seems to be the one unable to speak.

"That is so cool," he pronounces each work, makes her laugh – just a low chuckle. It feels good.

"Tell me, Detective, do I get the facts right in my books?" a flirtatious undertone hangs in his voice and she bites her lip, runs a hand through her hair. _She really needs to cut it. _

"Well, I'd say our cases mostly aren't that twisted and you certainly tend to exaggerate but all in all you get the facts pretty straight, Mr. Castle."

Where did _that_ just come from?

"I'm glad," he says with a wink.

He moves to return the book back to her, the people behind her start to get annoyed.

Now or never-

"I just wanted to say thank you. My- Mom introduced me to your novels. She believed in you since your first book."

"Then I should thank her. Why didn't she come with you?"

She hopes he doesn't see the cloud that covers her face, pushes the emotions back down, swallows the lump that formed within the split of a second.

"She's- absent," she says.

"You should bring her next time," he says.

"Yeah," she says because what would she give to make this actually come true?

"Goodbye, Mr. Castle," she grabs the book and turns around, leaves the store without looking back.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Detective," she hears from behind.

Outside she leans against the wall, takes a moment to catch her breath. A glance on her watch tells her she stood in line for an hour. She is going to be so late but right now she doesn't care because she opens the book and-

_Dear Kate, _

_until we meet again._

_Richard Castle_

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
